In a café I often forget about the waitress brings me water and a coffee, she smiles when I ask for a napkin. I use it to wipe sesame seeds from the tabletop. Eating a bagel puts them all back. On the stereo Bob Hite sings he’s going up the country. I stare out the window, I’ll stay right here.
And I need all the reasons I can find not to hate myself. But it’s hard. Even the idea makes me shiver. Because I see loving myself like looking down on others. Riding around on a high horse. And I never want to think I’m better then the people I see on the street. The ones who have it rough. The ones who don’t fit in. The ones I see my own face in.
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